


white throats and bare need

by marsbareater12



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Aftermath of Torture, Clint POV, Food Issues, M/M, aftermath of kidnapping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-10
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 01:44:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1038859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marsbareater12/pseuds/marsbareater12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, Phil longs for the days where his every movement wasn't tracked by Barton's eyes, where he didn't have to rely on JARVIS to tell him if Barton was hiding food to get rid of later, where he didn't have to tackle him to the ground and assure him that he hadn't poisoned him, he's going to be fine, trust me Barton, please. </p><p>Sometimes, Phil longs for the days where Barton was Clint and a meal was just that, but there's no going back now, but even if it takes fourteen years to get back what fourteen months took from him, then he's perfectly willing to fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue.

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning for eating disorders - although there are no eating disorders in this fic, rather just disordered eating, the behaviours often mirror each other. Proceed with care if this is something that triggers you.
> 
> Also, it's only a second person POV in the prologue, it switches to limited 3rd after that.

light _light_ god fucking dammit who let the light in when your arms couldn’t lift themselves up to shield him anymore - hah, good one, Barton, _shield_ , probably thinks you’re fuckin dead by now.

and then your stomach twists and you tried to groan, you swear you tried this time, and the sound barely tumbled over your lips before being swallowed up by the empty space around you, and you were just so _hungry_ , fuckin goons, couldn’t even kill you slowly could they.

There were words, someone was speaking, but you couldn’t hear them over all this fucking bullshit. You considered asking him for food - and your stomach spasmed again painfully, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten in god knows how many days, and your water supply was drying up, near the leaking pipe - but your throat was parched and you weren’t sure if you’d have the energy to even form the words, given the pathetic attempt of a groan you’d tried just seconds earlier -

and then there was a hand on your face, and they were fuckin _touching_ you now and you jerked away, your skin flinching, and then a voice, _“Clint?”_ , shocked and scared and you rolled your eyes and started laughing, hacking coughs from your ruined and broken ribs distorting the sound.

Fucking Coulson. Of course, it was Coulson. Your mind couldn’t think of anything else to comfort you in your final hours - and that’s it, you were dying, and this only cemented the fact and you couldn’t stop laughing.

The hand was around you now, helping you up, pulling you into a seated position, clipped words next to your ear. “We’ve got to…building…you’re compromised…Natasha-”

and your stomach twisted again and you were so fuckin _hungry_ , too weak fingers twisting and lifting themselves up in a final gesture of strength, scrabbling at Coulsons chest - fuck it if he wasn’t real, he had to have some food on him, and non-real food was better than anything else and you just needed to soothe this ache in your stomach and cool your throat and Christ, you were so fuckin _hungry_ -

and then you were moving and things were happening and the world was tilting on its side and you started laughing again but it was still coughing and you didn’t understand anything anymore.

It was bright outside - you screwed your eyes shut, hurt too fuckin much to look - and the fabric of the suit was rougher than usual, scratching against your left side, and your head wasn’t under your control and your fingers were still moving, still trying to find food hidden in the folds of the jacket, just a crumb, anything that could stem the fuckin _hunger_ , and you honest to god moaned this time at the word.

And then you were _outside_ outside with fresh air and everything, and the floor was solid again and _huh, he put me down,_ you think, and there are hands on your face and someone’s talking again and you managed to find the effort to listen for once in your life

“-look at me, Barton, look at me Agent, I need you to stay awake-”

and then you were off again, lost in your mind and the hunger, the fuckin _hunger_ , constant companion for days and weeks and months and it was all you knew and it was safe and easy and simple to slip back. 


	2. chapter one: pluck from my window this restless dream sweating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for completely and totally inaccurate medical depictions here. like. what are hospitals. what are beds. it's all very confusing. 
> 
> i'm aiming for about a chapter a week but i'm not sure if i'll get that, just to give you guys a general timeline. the whole thing has been planned out, just got to write it.
> 
> also i'm envisioning the movie clint watches here to be the take that renner was in, jsyk.

Clint woke up - or really, came back to himself, he’d never been gone that long in the first place - on a stretcher bed, wheeled on bumpy ramps and -

 _food_ , he could smell food, and his eyes jerked open and he was fighting and snarling and ready to snap the necks of anyone who dared to keep him away from it, and there were hands daring to keep him down and voices in his ear and on his face, and he kicked out, trying to loosen his wrists, he needed to get near it, and it was only getting stronger and someone had better be bringing the fuckin thing near him-

the holds on his wrists loosened and he jerked out of them, snatching at thin air to his left, whining when his arms wouldn’t even fucking leave his bed.

A weight next to him, a hand on his cheek, cool and damning all at once. “Calm down, Barton. No one’s trying to stop you.”

And then there was someone placing something hard, crisp between his lips, and he sucked it in, inhaling more than eating it, really, and it happened again, placed inside his mouth this time, and he was eager, swallowing every little piece they gave him, stomach angry at the intrusion and at the same time grateful and this was all wrong and he didn’t know how to react, only that he whined and his hands flapped limply when the food was gone.

“No more. You’ll make yourself sick.” A breath. “I’m sorry.”

And Clint dragged his eyes open again - when had they fucking shut? he couldn’t remember anything anymore - and was rewarded with Coulson leaning over him, hand pressed on Clint's hollowed stomach, eyebrows creased, just that little bit, and he looked up and huh, they were inside again, in a plane hanger, or something, and there were people taking his arms and sliding needles into them and restraints wrapping around his wrists, once, twice, his legs anchored the same way, and then there was a mask on his face and Coulson’s face twisted then, looking away, and no, that was wrong, Coulson never showed that much emotion-

and then Clint was gone again, eyes glassing over and vaguely tracking movements around him, not processing, filled with _hunger hungry need to eat food drink thirsty hungry hungry food please_ and there was nothing much to say to that, really now, was there.

 

* * *

 

 

There was a fucking tube down his throat.

He woke up and there was a fucking tube down his throat and sheets twisted around his waist and lines going into his wrists and stickers on his chest and head and a _fucking tube down his throat_.

He must’ve made a noise, a twitch, something, he realized later, because then there was six faces looming over him, and someone was talking, fast and rapid and loud and people joined in and he groaned, shutting his eyes and twisting away from the noise.

It quieted, dropping back, and then that same familiar hand cupping his face, cool and calming and he could’ve cried, turning into the contact, eyes blearily opening again to see Coulson standing next to him.

He tried to speak, ask, ask something, anything, but the tube in his throat moved painfully with the action, and he swallowed back a cry.

“Don’t speak. They had to insert a feeding tube-”

-”I think he knows that, Agent.”

“Stark.” Captain. Rogers. America. Something.

He almost did cry then, swallowing instead, grimacing at the tube again, staring at the ceiling, wishing there was a way he could communicate, something, anything.

“Do you remember anything from the last few days?” Coulson.

He shook his head, slowly, twisting only slightly, his neck weak and his energy was gone with the small movement, and _what the fuck,_ he was fucking _Hawkeye_ , he didn’t tire after a fucking shake of the head, and something was wrong, what had they done, what had happened to him, he had to move, had to run, had to leave, there was something in the the tube and he was tugging at the line in his wrist now, faint beeping in the back of his head that he did his best to tune out and ignore, legs moving, struggling to lift themselves, struggling to find purchase in twisting of the sheets, and they were _keeping_ him here, he was trapped and couldn’t leave and he’d never really escaped in the first place and the beeping and the voices reached a deafening pitch besides him and then it just-

stopped.

His eyes slid shut again and he turned, a faint pinch as the IV line reentered his hand registering in the back of his mind, barely thrumming before sleep rose up and claimed him once again.

 

* * *

 

“Fuck.”

Stark managed to sum up all their thoughts in one word, elegant as always, and Coulson contemplated giving him a bland look, but really, they deserved a break for once. Circumstances, and all that.

He kept his eyes on the body in the bed instead, running his fingers through the front of his hair, light tugs and pulls, catching the sweat that had begun to appear on his forehead with the inside of his wrist.

“Did he talk on the way back here?” Banner asked from behind, having taken a chair next to the wall, as far away from the bed as he could get and yet Coulson knew he saw more than any of them.

“No - he was pretty out of it. He recognised me after we gave him food-” _not that it had stayed down- “_ but only for a few seconds. Medical had him on the hard drugs straight away, he was in too much pain to do anything else.”

“So we have no idea what happened,” Stark finished, running his hands through his hair and slumping in a chair near the door. “Except that he hasn’t been fed properly, probably in the whole fucking fourteen months.”

Natasha glared.

The hospital issues gown sunk into Clint, settling in the hollows between his ribs, and _god_ , no one wanted to talk about that stomach. His arms had less definition than a prepubescent teenager, less weight then a ten year old, and all the muscle he’d spent his life building and retained was now gone, eaten up by the body whilst in captivity to try and stay alive.

Coulson remembered the weak fingers twitching against his suit, barely able to move, and suppressed a frown, choosing to look at the machines next to him instead. The panic had scared them all, Stark going quiet for once, Rogers loudest, trying to figure out what to do whilst quashing his own terror in the process, the machines adding an underlying, constant pitch that none of them had needed, Clint twitching and face contorting and it was only when he started to weakly pull on the IV line that Coulson had realized what was happening.

Someone had probably drugged him, he thought if that was his first response. He sighed, looking down where the archers wrist was laying limply in the sheets once more. They needed to find out what had happened, they needed to debrief him, but Coulson had no idea how much Clint might’ve remembered, how much he could remember.

He hadn’t said his name yet, and that terrified Coulson most of all. They needed him - they needed Barton to remember and recognize and heal, now that he was a member of the most high profile team in all of S.H.I.E.L.D, there was no telling when he could be called upon - or if he could be taken from right under their noses.

Barton and Hawkeye and Clint and none of them were sure who remained anymore.

 

* * *

 

Clint woke quietly, silently, movements stilling and fingers laying flat against the sheets. It was bright in his room, there was no window, and _god_ , they hadn’t really moved had they, they’d just fed him and placed him here and tried to make him feel safe and get him to talk to this - to this _impostor_ who _dared_ to take on the _face_ of Coulson, and _no_ , this could not be, and he had to fix it-

“Barton.”

Clint sighed, turning his head once more, the tubes shifting with his movements, hard plastic against his scarred cheeks. His thoughts stopped, shut down, but he couldn’t - no, it still wasn’t _right_. He had to be careful. Had to be on his guard, couldn’t reveal anything that could be used against them.

“I’m going to raise your bed up now, okay?” Coulson asked, gentle as always as he thumbed the button and the bed rose with a _whirr_ , Clint’s back jolting with the movement, sending bolts of agony up his spine, and he grimaced, throat closing over, dry air tumbling over his parched lips.

Coulson frowned, eyes flicking up in concern. “Don’t try and speak, Barton.”

Clint rolled his eyes, the sense of _wrong_ festering in his gut.

A pad of paper was pushed onto his lap, the fingers in his right hand curled around a thick pencil. “Talk to me, Barton,’ Coulson said, squeezing on his hand before settling back into the chair at the side of the bed, ever vigilant, ever watching.

 _Where are the others?_ Clint scrawled, letters jumping with each movement, and his wrist tired abruptly, pencil resting limply in soft curls of fingers.

“Stark’s back at the tower, Rogers is getting food with Banner, Natasha is working on finding the details of what happened to you - I can get Stark, Rogers, and Banner for you.”

_Plea-_

His writing turns illegible and he wants to snap the pencil in frustration, choosing to scrunch his eyes up instead and rest his head against the back of the bed, trying not to cry, and jesus _fuck_ , what on earth had happened to his emotions - it was the drugs, it was always the drugs.

Paper rustled against the fabric of his pants, the weight lifting off his legs. “I’ll make sure they’re here when you wake up next. Go back to sleep.”

Clint obliges, although he’s still not sure how much is him and how much is drugs and NotCoulson and fuckin HYDRA dosing him with god knows what, but it’s more time that he’s not putting RealCoulson at risk and that can only be a good thing.

 

* * *

 

“Barton, hey, Clint, you with me?” Tony says, snapping his fingers far too close to Clints face - god, he can _hear_ the air moving - and Clint raises his hand - y’know, the one without the instant drug line - and flips him the bird, before settling back down and opening his eyes, shaking off the last dredges of sleep, looking over at Coulson.

Coulson placed the pad of paper, clean pages now, on his lips, and gently helped him wrap his fingers around the pencil once again.

_Cameras?_

Stark looked at Coulson.

“They’re disabled, there was one in the corner before you got here. They need to be turned back on when I leave, though.”

Clint looked at Tony, underlining the word on his paper.

“I can disable them easily for you, permanently, Clint. In fact…” he trailed off, pulling a small device out of his pocket, thumbing buttons on it.

“Stark, no,” Coulson said sharply, turning, glaring at him, Clint guessed. “Those cameras are there for a reason.”

“And now they’re not.” Stark grinned. “What do you want, Clint?”

Clint let the pencil fall, crooking his fingers at Tony, the universal symbol of _come here_. Tony followed, smile quirked at the corners of his mouth, Coulson falling back to give him room.

Clint reached over, stretching his arms, keeping his face smooth at the pain that shot through his muscles, reaching over to Tony’s shirt - and _god,_ it had been a long time since he’d felt clean fabric - curling his fingers under the hem and tugging, pulling upwards - needed to see, needed to _know_.

Tony’s smiled faltered, though he didn’t stop Clint, leaning over, allowing greater access to his shirt. He grabbed Clint’s wrist, pulling it off, and Clint looked up, confused, before Tony took it off himself, letting it pool on the sterile ground behind him.

Clint whined - he could see it now, blue glow pale in the starkly lit room, but he had to _know_ , had to feel it, it had to be _real_ and then he could-

And then Tony was taking his hand, pulling it up gently, placing it on the smooth surface and curling Clint's fingers around the edges where it sat within his skin, protruding just that half inch out, and Clint sighed in relief and closed his eyes and lent back, tension dissipating in the sheets around him and then-

yeah, he was asleep again.

 

* * *

 

Coulson wasn’t there the next time he woke up and Clint startled, pulling at the sheets, at the tube stuck in his throat and Natasha and Rogers were there, pushing him back down and they were talking and - _Coulson_ , he needed Coulson, needed to know he was safe and there and HYDRA had taken him again and they’d decided he wasn’t co-operating, not fast enough and they were going to kill him and-

“Clint!” Harsh, unforgiving words slapped him, leaving him staring at the space where his panic used to be, red hair floating in the edges of his vision. “Clint”, softer this time.

He turned his face, and Natasha was holding up the pad of paper and the pencil, placing it on his lap slowly, soothing him. “Can I?” she asked, indicating the pencil, and he nodded his assent, bleary, tired, his body only vaguely co-operating with what he wanted.

His fingers were wrapped around the pencil once more, his first word scrawled out with urgency. _Coulson_.

Natasha and Steve exchanged a _look_ , and as doped up and sleepy as it was, he was still Clint fucking Barton, goddammit, his observational skills hadn’t degraded completely.

He wrote as such, and Natasha smiled, soft, sitting in the chair next to his bed, Steve near the door. “He’s with Fury.”

Clint nodded, pencil stilling in his hands, sitting limply in the bed, using the opportunity to stretch out his legs, his toes under the covers, revelling in the feeling that rushed up to meet him, swelling and triumphant in its glory, and he would’ve laughed if his ribs hadn’t lit themselves on fire at the thought and the damn tube still hadn’t been in his throat. He flexed the hand the IV line was in the back of, his left, the one that gripped the bow every damn time while he was waiting to draw, fingers curling into his palm and stretching flat again, following the action with his right hand, clenching around the pencil instead.

He was alive and he was here and he was safe and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like this.

Rogers cleared his throat, stepping around to face him, arm awkwardly twisted in front of him. “Stark was worried you might be getting bored - he told me to bring you this.”

A flat, black tablet sat in his hands, and Clint nodded, looked to Natasha who took it and laid i on his lap, standing up and leaning over him, helping him to manipulate the buttons with his clumsy, fuckin clumsy fingers and they’d taken that away from him too.

“Stark, uh, he preloaded it with movies, couple of games I think that are on there.”

Clint picked up the pencil from where it had fallen, twisting his wrist and looking away from the bones that moved under his skin, grotesque flesh twisting around his all-too visible skeleton. _Thanks_ he sketched out, weakly, pulling a corner of his lips up into a smile.

Natasha tapped on his wrist again, directing him to the movies library on the tablet, letting him sit and pick one as he wanted.

“Phil said you would probably be able to stay awake for longer now,” she offered in explanation, and he nodded, tapping on the title for _Take._

* * *

 

“Close your eyes, Clint.” Coulson’s voice, calm as always, and Clint was twitching, watching the nurses that hovered around him and the doctor at his side.

Coulson had his hand wrapped around Clint’s wrist, squeezing, providing a port for Clint to rest in should he grow weary of the emotional storm.

“Clint, close your eyes.”

Clint shook his head, watching, wary at the people around him, stifling a whine as the thick tube scraped the walls of his throat. He was so sick of it, so sick of the pain waiting to meet him every time he jerked awake from his sleep, sick of the muted throb whenever he turned his head to face anyone, to track them across the room.

The doctor spoke them,calm, soothing, laying his words out slowly for Clint to hear him. “We’ve already disconnected the tube to everything else, we just need to pull it out of you, Clint. You may feel some pain, and we can give you some more painkillers if you wish.”

Clint shook his head, violent, jerking against the hold Coulson had on him. _No_ , his mind screamed, back from the haze that the drugs had forced upon it, fighting through the tendrils of apathy that had weaved their way around his brain, burrowing in the holes HYDRA had left to fill him with nothing, thick and stifling.

The nurse wrapped both her hands around the start of it, nails touching his lips, leaving white marks from where they pressed in too deeply and Clint ached to see Coulson’s face again, but it was irrational, he couldn’t ask, not now.

“Ready?”

And really, he had no idea why they asked, it wasn’t like he could reply, and Coulson’s hand tightened around his wrist and then the nurse started pulling and-

 _oh_.

Aching, movement in places there should never be, and Clint gagged, blinking back the unexpected tears that had sprung at the intrusion. The tube was pulling its way up his throat now, and he turned his head away, couldn’t look, and evidently the nurse had decided he was used to it then, and she started pulling harder, faster, and Clint _arched_ off the bed, every muscle in his body locked into a nervous, thrumming ball, and Coulson was spitting something at someone and cold harsh words and then the end hit the back of Clint’s mouth, and he couldn’t understand why he thought he was gagging before because this was it, he was going to throw up now, and he had just enough time to lean to the side, barely registering the scrape of plastic against the back of his teeth, before he threw up all over the floor.

Coulson had shifted, he noticed, dimly, rubbing his back, standing over him. “You done? Don’t speak.”

Clint nodded, eyes sliding shut of their own accord, leaning back up with Coulson’s help, settling on the mattress and laying back, dragging deep, cool breaths through his mouth, closing his eyes and resting back. His throat was on fire, lit ablaze with agony, and he coughed, ribs whining and protesting at the sudden movement and then he couldn’t stop, doubled over, great, big coughs racking his frame and he was out of control again and at some point the coughing had turned into Not Breathing and-

The sound of rattling in a cup distracted him, a hand on his chest and back once more, rubbing, a stream of words trickling in his ear, curling and twisting down the side of his neck, cool and grounding and perfect. He was eased back to the mattress, straightened out, still sitting up, and a cool ice chip placed just on the inside of his parted lips.

“Sleep, Barton.”

And he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tumblr // lithiophilite.co.vu


	3. chapter two: all bodies of water are lonely at night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone's wondering, by the way, the title + chapter titles are from ex reverie's song called "ceder".
> 
> gross medical inaccuracies ahead, you have been warned.

Banner was with him now, across the room, at the foot of his bed, Coulson still commandeering the only chair in the room.

“You want to try your first meal, Barton?”

Clint shrugged, staring at the door where the orderly was hovering, meal trays on carts, waiting for a sign.

“Clint.” Coulson, again, standing up, leaning over him, clutching his wrist. “We need to know.”

Clint looked away, wishing he could drum his fingers next to him, move his legs, do something, anything. He was as invalid as he was back where HYDRA had him, and he’d known it would be foolish to think that everything would be fixed magically, but he’d hoped that something could be different, at least.

Coulson watched, silent.

Banner moved then, exhaling roughly, running his hand through his hair. “You need to eat, Clint. Your body - you’ve gone long enough without it, and I know it wasn’t your fault, but you need to start now, even if you’re not hungry.”

Clint laughed then, short. He knew what Banner was going on about, the whole starvation mode thing, anyone with half a brain and a grade three education knew, and he hadn’t lost that much time in the circus, thank you very much. Even what he had - Coulson had sat with him, applied for his GED with him, and he’d taught himself everything and they had graded it together and he was as damn smart as any of them.

His throat lit aflame then, protesting at the laughter, and he moved his hand out of Coulson’s, reaching over for the cup of ice chips on the side table next to him, popping one in his mouth and sucking on it.

Banner turned, nodding to the orderly at the door, and Clint swallowed, shifting up in his bed, making room for the small table Coulson swung across his lap.

“I know it’s just hospital food,” Coulson said, eyes downcast, frowning, apologising, “but it’s all we have for now - we can get you something better for your next meal.”

“Sure,” Clint rasped, lifting the lid off the part that seemed to be the main part of the meal-

and then the _smell_ hit and he froze, looking down at it, mind racing, _don’t need me don’t need me anymore gonna get it out of me one way or another gonna fuck it up gonna fuck me up_ and his breath caught in his throat, fingers clutched around the edge of the swing over table, knuckles white and unrelenting, shooting pain up his arm, body frozen.

“Jesus,” Banner muttered.

And that was _it_ and Clint could move again, and he swung his arm across, knocking the food out of the way and jolting upwards, curling into the corner of the bed and he took stock, the needle still in his arm he could take their eye out with it, blind them easily, might be able to wrench the table off and use it as blunt force, the chair was next to him if he got out of these sheets quick enough and that could work, and then the man with the suit was leaning in and he got his hand on the line and pulled the needle out of his wrist and-

_“Coulson, back!”_

-and he was lunging out with the needle clenched in his fist and it met empty air, the suit back in the corner and the other man with him, and Clint looked at them, really _looked_ this time, and aw _jesus_ , had he just done that, really, Barton?

“Barton?” Coulson echoed, wary, taking a step forward.

“Get - get _back_ , stay away,” Clint choked, dropping the needle from his IV and letting the line pool uselessly next to him on the bed, a bead of blood appearing at the hole in his hand. He’d already killed Coulson once, couldn’t do it - couldn’t do it again. Medical miracles only worked once, he knew that.

Banner nodded, stepping forward himself. “Don’t, Coulson.” He turned, addressing Clint now, slow, measured steps forward, hands open and palms at his side. “Clint, what’s happening?”

Clint watched, mute, dumb, unable to answer, brain shutting down and he was _tired_ now, after that, fingers fiddling with the others wrist and with themselves, endlessly wrapping and sliding over one another.

Banner - Bruce, Clint reminded himself, he was Bruce - got to the side of his bed, moving the table back down to the side of the bed and sitting in Coulson’s chair, leaning forward slightly, the rails of the bed at mid chest height. “Can you give me your IV?”

Hesitant, cautious, Clint obliged, slow movements, watching Bruce with unmoving eyes, gently throwing the needle end to him.

“Come here, Clint, let me put it back in. I’m not going to do anything else, it’s just for hydration, there’s nothing else in it.” Bruce took a breath. “Nothing’s going to happen, Clint,” he continued when Clint didn’t move.

Clint’s gaze flicked up to Coulson, who gave him a small nod, and Clint turned back, slowly unfurling himself, hissing as blood made its way down his legs again, moving over on the bed and reaching out his hand for Bruce.

It was taken in calloused fingers, fingers spread out and flipped over so their palms were meeting. “I’m sorry,” Bruce murmured, sliding the needle back in and re-sticking the tape over it, letting it go as soon as he was done.

Clint let it linger, dropping it back to the sheets when his arm began to protest at the dead weight. “’m tired,” he muttered, leaning back against the bed.

“I know,” Coulson said, moving forward now, standing at the end of the bed. “Barton - we’re going to have to put the feeding tube back in, you know that?”

“Don’t care,” Clint slurred, eyes sliding shut.

Bruce shook his arm. “Hey, stay awake for this, Clint. We need your consent, and - look, Coulson will kill me if I let you skip your next one.”

Clint opened his eyes, not without effort, looking directly at Coulson at the end of the bed. “You have my _consent-_ ” and he laced the word with sarcasm _\- “_ just let me sleep.”

Coulson sighed, dropping his head, forehead creasing with resignation. “Fine, Barton, sleep. I’ll go and talk to the nurses now.”

“Nasogastric?” Bruce asked. “He can take it now - and we’d be able to get him home sooner.”

“I’ll propose it to them, although I can’t see them disagreeing,” Coulson replied. “And Barton, I know you’re listening. _Sleep.”_

Clint only grinned.

 

* * *

 

Steve had to hold him down when they were putting the tube back in, pinning his arms to the bed and Coulson was right next to him, holding his head in place, murmuring “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ ,” a constant litany of words that held no meaning for Clint anymore.

 

* * *

 

“The fuck do you have against food, Clint?” Tony asked, one day, fiddling with wiring in his left glove, captaining his food table and spinning it away from his bed to use as a temporary workbench.

‘Fuck you too, Stark,” Clint rasped.

Tony reached for the cup sitting next to him, offering another ice chip to Clint, distracted by the dull wire he was tweaking.

“Seriously though,” Tony continued, speaking around the screwdriver in his mouth, “when are you getting back to the tower?”

Clint shook his head, raising his bed higher as to sit at almost a right angle. “Ask Coulson. Or Rogers, they seem to know a lot better than I do.”

Stark tilted down his sunglasses, allowing Clint to see the unimpressed look he was currently sporting. “To be fair,” he said, removing the screwdriver from his mouth, placing it on the table next to the now-abandoned glove, “you were gone for fourteen months, and you haven’t told either of them what happened.”

“Not really something they need to know at the moment,” Clint replied, distant, rolling his shoulders back in a lazy shrug. “Psych’s got all the notes - and the camera records.”

“Well, fuck me, “ Stark muttered. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” he asked, louder, changing the subject, poking at the thin tube in Clint’s nose, and Clint laughed.

A roll of the eyes. “You’re crazy, man.”

Clint shot him a grin, just on the wrong edge of fucked up. “That’s why I’m here, Stark. That’s why I’m in SHIELD and you’re in Stark Industries.”

“And never the twain shall meet, except when it results in the Avengers, which is a beautiful, beautiful thing,” Tony finished, turning back to the glove. “Seriously Clint. Tell Coulson to get you out of here and we’ll set you up at the Tower again. Dummy misses you.”

The door opened then, nurse knocking on the side of it. She frowned. “Mr Stark, why did you remove the restraints?”

Clint smirked.

The nurse sighed. “Clint, you know they’re for your own good.”

“Fuck that.”

Tony spoke then, recovering from his short, yet abnormal, silence. “Why is he in restraints?” he asked, wary, preparing himself for - for something, Clint couldn’t recognise the signs.

“It’s easier for all,” the nurse replied. “Mr. Stark, will you co-operate with us to get them back on?”

“Fuck no!” Tony exclaimed, pushing back from the bed. “I don’t know what sort of game you think you’re playing at, but you can’t restrain him - he’s been _tortured_ , doesn’t that mean anything to you people.”

“Believe me or not, Mr. Stark, but we deal with people who have been through torture on a daily basis,” the nurse replied, tone shifting to ice. “Do I need to remove you from the room?”

“Clint?” Tony asked, turning to face him.

Clint shrugged, again.

“Alright,” the nurse said. “I’ll be back in a minute. Mr. Stark, keep an eye on Clint, if you would?”

She disappeared, and Tony turned to him, still slowly, still wary. “What’s happening, Clint?”

“Ask Coulson or Rogers,” Clint replied, echoing himself, twisting one side of his mouth up into a smile. “They know much better than me, after all.”

“Clint-”

Tony was cut off by the door opening again, two burly doctors and the fucking goddamn nurse again. She smiled. “Clint, do try and be co-operative this time.”

“Fuck you,” Clint spat, pulling away from the edge of the bed and clenching his hand into a fist, ignoring his muscles, his panic rising up and overwhelming him- they were going to do it again, fucking drug him, and he couldn’t, he couldn’t, he couldn’t let them do that to him, to Coulson, to Stark, his family, to Tash and then he lashed out at the nearest doctor, kicking at those near his bed, but they were fuckin trained and used to him, expecting, probably watching the fucking cameras to send themselves to sleep at night, and he was screaming. “Fuck you, fuck off, you fucking bastards, never fucking let you touch me, won’t tell you anything,” and his legs were stilled and the straps pulled on them tight, the arms following and they held down his chest as they secured the ones there, three on his torso, one across his thighs and his hands and feet completely immobilized, and he could do nothing but twist his head to watch the nurse flush out his feeding tube with warm water before hooking it up to the bag, letting it stand above his head, damning him.

The doctors left after checking his restraint, the nurse already gone and promising to be back before the bag had been emptied, and Clint felt the fight rush out of his body, tilting his head back, accepting the laced food he knew they’d given him, knowing he couldn’t do anything about it anymore.

“Clint?” Tony asked, once they had definitely left them alone.

Clint turned his head towards him, opening his eyes, letting the defeat show on his face. “What?”

The door pushed open again, and he braced himself for the nurse before he spotted the dark of Coulson’s suit, and he pushed himself back against the bed, the tendons in his hand beginning to press against his skin and his arm aching, the only form of fighting her could do.

One of those little - little fuckin juicebox things, with the cardboard and the straw in the little plastic wrapping, and really, Coulson, really?

Coulson lent down and paused. “You’re not going to pull out your nasogastric again, are you?”

‘What will you give me if I don’t?” Clint asked, cocky.

“Very funny,” Coulson replied, dry and bland as the day he was born, and undid the strap on his left hand. “They’ve said you can leave once you can get through one of these without throwing up,” and he pressed the juicebox into Clint’s hand.

Clint turned it over, looking at it. “What is it?”

“Liquid calories, right?” Tony spoke up, screwdriver back in hand, twisting it between his fingers.

A glare. “Yes, Stark. _Ensure_. It’s - Clint, we need to get you back up to weight, just trust me. You can’t lose anymore, you’re at serious risk as is.”

“Right,” Clint replied, letting his hand rest back against the bed. “Of course.”

Coulson glanced up at the bag attached to his feed tubes and cursed. “That’s getting too low,” he muttered, disconnecting it with ease, winding the tubing back around the hooks on the pole. “Your nurse is incompetent.”

Clint laughed. “Yeah. I know. I see enough of her each day.”

The tube cleared itself, and Coulson frowned. “Try it, Barton.”

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

“He’s right, you know.” Tony was working on the glove again, commandeering the side table - _again_ \- still speaking around the screwdriver in his mouth.

Clint paused the game on his tablet, his left arm still free from the restraints, Coulson refusing to undo anymore and - well, Clint, he didn’t want to disappoint Coulson on this one. “What?”

“You should drink it.” He cocked his head towards the inoffensive fucking juicebox still sitting next to Clint. “And then Dummy will stop bugging me and Coulson will stop moping and Natasha will come home sometime.”

Clint’s stomach rolled in unease, looking away. “Can’t. Stark,” he ground out, memories dangling just under the tenuous glass floor he’d built himself in his mind, his body tight with tension.

“You can’t stay in here forever, buddy. We miss you,” Stark said, shuffling out of his chair and coming over to the bed, picking the tablet up and placing it back on the side table. “Tell us what happened, and we can help - we can help to fix it, Clint. Come on.”

Clint refused to move his head, dropping it in resignation. “What do you want to know.”

A pause.

“Why won’t you eat?”

A bark of a laugh, warped, sarcastic, stumbling up and out of his throat. _Of course. Start with the easy ones_ , he thought, telling himself, reassuring himself. “Isn’t it simple? Haven’t you figured it out yet?

“They fucking _poisoned_ me Stark, fed me truth serum and hallucinogens and made me see Coulson being stabbed over and over again, watched as I ingested just-safe limits of regular chemical poisons and laughed as they made me sit in my own vomit, help my mouth shut and tipped my head back so I would choke and asked _will you, will you tell us now, little one_ , and I didn’t tell them a _thing_ , I swear.”

He was quiet, words fast, urgent, rushing out of him like spilt milk in a cracked jug, sheet twisted around his one restrained hand, legs aching with the effort it took not to jump, to spring out of the bed and run and find them and kill them, slowly, one by one until he could bathe in their blood for what they did to him.

Tony hummed next to him, a noise of contentment, slamming him back down to earth. “Drugged your food?”

“What do you think,” Clint spat. He tired abruptly, the fight rushing out of him. “Shit, ‘m sorry.”

Tony shrugged, picking up the _Ensure_ in his hands, twisting it, over and over again. “So, then, why won’t you drink this? It hasn’t been opened, there’s a seal on it - or is it that I’ve touched it, because we can get you a new one.”

That was unexpected. “What?”

“Come on, Clint. PTSD plays by its own rules, but it still has them - we just need to figure out what yours are,” Tony said, placing the _Ensure_ in Clint’s hands. “Tell me, what’s so repulsive about that - not food, just that.”

Clint sighed, freeing his other arm and undoing the restraints along his chest, Tony watching. He leaned over the box, twisting it in his hands, reading the ingredients. “I don’t know what half this shit is.”

“There’s a place to start.” Tony grabbed the tablet again, easily manoeuvring it, opening the internet browser and setting his keys expectantly on the keyboard.. “Which one do you want to look up first?”

 

* * *

 

Stark came out of the room, a empty box of _Ensure_ in his hand, eyebrows raised, grinning. “So, when’s he coming home?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ensure is a real thing - it's most often given to patients suffering from eating disorders. It's not a nice tasting thing, but it's real. And the ingredients are complicated as hell. 
> 
> Nasogastric is the tube that goes up your nose and into your stomach - further reading can be found at http://gut.bmj.com/content/52/suppl_7/vii1.long#sec-12 for the interested parties. :) It's mainly understandable, which is quite amazing for a medical journal. 
> 
> I doubt the next chapter will be up as quickly, a mixture of writers block and exams.
> 
> and, as always - tumblr // lithiophilite.co.vu


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